Much amazed, the committee-man led her into the hall.  It was whitewashed, furnished with plain benches, lit with a few gas-jets.  There was scarcely room to move for the crowd.  Every man seemed to be talking at the pitch of his voice.  The effect was an angry roar.  Adela’s guide with difficulty made a passage for her to the platform, for it took some time before the crowd realised what was going on.  At length she stood in a place whence she could survey the assembly.  On the wall behind her hung a great sheet of paper on which were inscribed the names of all who had deposited money with Mutimer.  Adela glanced at it and understood.  Instead of being agitated she possessed an extraordinary lucidity of mind, a calmness of nerve which she afterwards remembered as something miraculous.

The committee-man roared for silence, then in a few words explained Mrs. Mutimer’s wish to make ‘a speech.’  To Adela’s ears there seemed something of malice in this expression; she did not like, either, the laugh which it elicited.  But quiet was speedily restored by a few men of sturdy lungs.  She stepped to the front of the platform.

The scene was a singular one.  Adela had thrown off her waterproof in the cab; she stood in her lady-like costume of home, her hat only showing that she had come from a distance.  For years her cheeks had been very pale; in this moment her whole face was white as marble.  Her delicate beauty made strange contrast with the faces on each side and in front of her—­faces of rude intelligence, faces of fathomless stupidity, faces degraded into something less than human.  But all were listening, all straining towards her.  There were a few whispers of honest admiration, a few of vile jest.  She began to speak.

’I have come here because my husband cannot come.  It is most unfortunate that he cannot, for he tells me that someone has been throwing doubt upon his honesty.  He would be here, but that a terrible misfortune has befallen him.  His sister was lying ill in our house.  A little more than an hour ago she was by chance left alone and, being delirious—­out of her mind—­escaped from the house.  My husband is now searching for her everywhere; she may be dying somewhere in the streets.  That is the explanation I have come to give you.  But I will say a word more.  I do not know who has spoken ill of my husband; I do not know his reasons for doing so.  This, however, I know, that Richard Mutimer has done you no wrong, and that he is incapable of the horrible thing of which he is accused.  You must believe it; you wrong yourselves if you refuse to.  To-morrow, no doubt, he will come and speak for himself.  Till then I beg you to take the worthy part and credit good rather than evil.’